Locomotive to the Past by George Schultz (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

were wonderful days! Those were wonderful trains! The 1942 Jason sighed—deeply. Those were wonderful memories! All, of course, were now—well in the future. That really was a nifty pipe, though.

Sadly, Grandpa had, finally, given the beloved thing up. Had stopped puffing—on the sanctified, gorpy-looking, meerschaum. Had “abandoned” all the rest of his pipes. This took place—well after so many of those top-of-the-lungs media drives, to ban every manner of smoking had begun.

The old man had, eventually, confessed that—despite the fact that he didn’t inhale—some of the smoke would have to have “seeped in”. And he’d been positive that he’d swallowed “more than his share” of tobacco juice—as the years had gone by. The elderly one had gotten—to where he said that he could tell that the ol’ pipe was causing him a good bit of shortness of breath. Young Jason lamented the fact that, no longer did the wonderful aroma of Captain Black fill the Piepczyk home. He truly missed it. Truly!

In some cities, smoking in any public place had, by then, become absolutely verboten! By law! There were those—who were trying to ban people from even smoking, in the privacy of their own home—if they employed a nanny, or any form of domestic help. Or if they had children of their own—or even visiting kids. “Big Brother” truly was beginning to watch!

The celebrated Mr. Clarkson had banned smoking in his coffee shop—a year or so, before the turn of the century. There had been a good deal of sulking—and a more-than-moderate amount of complaining. But, most of the “steadies” had, in the final analysis, remained loyal, to the joint. (Reluctantly—in some cases, and very reluctantly, in others)

There was one young woman—about Jason’s age—who’d not come back. More was the sorrow. Our Boy had had a substantial crush on her. (“Forgive me ‘Aunt Debbie’!”) The young woman’s name was Melissa. And she’d never returned—after having been, forcefully, “asked” to put out her cigarette—by that ever-polite, ever-considerate, class-guy, Manny.

Melissa had never worn skirts quite so tight—nor nearly so short—as those that “Aunt Debbie” had almost always sported. But, still, she was very pretty. And she’d always seemed truly interested—in most, of what Jason had to say. Of all the memories—that had flooded the overworked mind, of the since-relocated youth—among the most pleasant, were those of Melissa.

Well, of course, and those warming recollections—of that stupid, dorky-looking meerschaum pipe. And, obviously, of Grandpa’s remarkable collection of vintage trains. And, most obviously, that of the old man, himself.

Now? Now, here he was—in grossly uncharted waters! In 1942, for heaven’s sakes! Transplanted back! Transported back—in time, for heaven’s sake! Picked up—and set down—almost sixty years, in the past!

It had been some kind of day! Really! Some kind of day!

SIX

As he was finishing his second succulent hamburger—and draining the last drop, of the delicious coffee (his second cup)—it occurred to Our Hero, that he was going to have to find some sort of living quarters! And quickly! Before he blew what little money he’d had—on these glorious hamburgers. (Or even on a hotel room.) Acquiring some sort of at least-semi-permanent living space—would, obviously, have to be the top priority, for him! In truth, he’d known that all along. But, time to delay that ponderous task had run out, he was forced to acknowledge.

Turning to the classified section, he was surprised to note the era’s employment ads! Virtually all were headed—under truly politically-incorrect categories! Such as (GASP!) “Help Wanted—Male” and “Help Wanted—Female”! Imagine!

For as long as Jason could remember, no one had ever advertised jobs—in that, “wholly-insensitive”, manner. In the 21st Century, such outrageous listings were considered to be a bona fide form—of sexual harassment! Certainly—undoubtedly—this uncaring sort of thing, at which the young man was staring—constituted out and out sexual discrimination. No one could advertise for an, almost-criminal, “Gal Friday”! Not in 21st Century Detroit! Or 21st century anyplace else! But, in glancing through this Detroit paper, Our taken-aback Hero spotted, probably, three dozen such ad-headings. Incredibly, civilization—as we know it—appeared to be surviving! No matter how laborious!

Under “Rooms To Rent”, Our Boy found many fewer listings—than he would’ve hoped for. Many fewer! The housing shortage—about which, Grandpa had so often spoken—had, apparently, begun in earnest. Already!

Already? This soon . . . after Pearl Harbor Day?

One of the ads, though, did snag his attention! Almost immediately! The room, that was advertised—was located, in a private dwelling, on Sussex Street. He couldn’t tell—not from the address—the name of the main cross-street, to which the house would be near.

But, he’d heard Grandpa Piepczyk talk—often enough—about having attended Cadillac Elementary School. He’d never known the street on which young Richard Piepczyk had lived. But, he did know that the school was located on Schoolcraft! And he was aware of the fact that the two residential streets—the ones, which ran along each side, of the facility—were Coyle and Sussex!

He—immediately—phoned the number, in the ad. He was surprised—at the absolute fortress, confronting him. This was the, industrial-strength, enclosure—that constituted the day’s mighty phone booth. He was also pleasantly surprised—that the call would cost him, only a nickel.

And he was mildly taken aback—by the fact, that the receiver was a separate instrument. Removed from the mouthpiece. The latter was affixed to the phone itself. The earpiece was a round, screwy-looking—sort of conical—device, at the end of a thick, exceptionally-heavy, cloth-covered, cord. Amazing!

The woman—on the other end of the rather-labored connection—advised him that the room was still available. It would cost $6.00, a week. This was not, however, a room-and-board situation, she’d hastily cautioned. No meals came with the deal. The house, she advised him, was located between Plymouth and West Chicago. Well, he believed, that this was close enough—to Cadillac Elementary. The school that his grandfather had attended—during the early-forties.

Jason pleaded with the kindly-sounding lady—to hold the room available! Implored her—to save it, for him—till he could get there, in a matter of, maybe, an-hour-or-so. Hopefully, sooner! Hopefully, much sooner!

The new-arrival hastened to make his way, up Trumbull—walking from Michigan